Chopped Liver

Is writing "chopped liver" on your liver an art form of the
masochist? Or is humanity that is the masochism of my mocked existence?
These lines are for now, when not so suddenly I begin scheduling my
brooding, and forgetting the luring appointment. For it shows no sign
of happening, where enveloped ideas lose pertinence in their outcast
explanation: I don't agree to this kind of humanity. As I further my
addiction to love, the timing separates and the money pit grows deeper.
I take Oak Island in my cheap bookbag.

I don't blink or sing along, for the murmur of a drowning purpose is an
unappealing music.

II.

Trying to tell a story
or create an adventure
loses stealth when
it is halted by a frozen hope.
Not a crack, not a snowflake, not
a constant smile/hand
is an icepick.
I have rendered a rating
of degenerate
by strangers.

III.

I like the # zero
because love requires adding two
nothings
to create a retraction.